an archive of longings
by HoweverImprobable
Summary: As a general rule, Sherlock avoids his university's library. That is, until he goes in there one day and lays eyes on rugby captain John Watson. After that, Sherlock decides that the library might not be such a bad place after all.
1. Chapter 1

As a general rule, Sherlock avoided his university's library. Normally, he would have appreciated the quiet, solitary environment that the library promised, but ever since Sebastian Wilkes had started working at the help desk up front, Sherlock found the library much less appealing. Wilkes had a habit of treating him like a circus act, and Sherlock had better things to do than to deal with that. Besides, ever since his roommate had moved out at the start of the term, he could get quiet solitude in his own room without the discomfort of running into anyone else.

There was a book he needed, however, and it seemed to only be available at the library. Sherlock couldn't understand how this text had managed to escape being offered online, but he had searched thoroughly enough to know that that was the case. So, with great displeasure, he made his way into the library, head down in an attempt to discourage anyone from pursing a conversation with him.

As expected, Seb Wilkes didn't take the hint. "Hey, look who it is," he announced to no one in particular as Sherlock walked by the front desk.

"I've got to get a book," Sherlock told him, not making eye contact. He continued walking.

"Oh, don't be like that," Seb called after him. "Come on, you've got to at least do your little trick for me."

Sherlock grimaced. It was a talent, a skill, not a _trick_. "I hardly have time right now." It was a lie, of course, but he couldn't be bothered to put up with Seb at the moment. Before the man could get a reply out, Sherlock made his way behind a tall shelf, putting the front desk out of sight.

 _Talbot,_ he reminded himself. He was looking for a book on biochemistry by Maureen Talbot. He scanned the books in front of him, not entirely sure where he should be looking. He had long since deleted knowledge of a library's organisational system to make room for more interesting data. As it was, it took him eighteen minutes to locate the book he needed, which was an embarrassingly long amount of time for someone who prided himself on being clever.

Sherlock snatched the book from off its shelf and began making his way back toward the check-out desk, passing through a cluster of small tables to do so.

That was when it happened.

Sherlock spotted him from across the room. A lone figure sitting at one of the two-person tables at the library's centre. Hair turned golden in the light from the windows, dark eyes of an indeterminate colour, fit torso clad in a rugby jacket. Sherlock bit his lip. The man looked to be about three years older, putting him at twenty-three years of age. The books he had scattered about the table indicated that he was studying medicine. There was no confusion or stress in his expression, no tightness around the eyes or mouth, so it was clear that he understood the material enough to ensure that his grade was not in danger. Clothes were well-worn but generic enough to not be out of style yet. Books were bought used, obviously. Very used, judging by the wear of the covers. Not well-off, then; on scholarship, most likely. He was captain of the university's rugby team, according to the large white 'C' that had been embroidered on the sleeve of his jacket. Sherlock suddenly sorely regretted never attending rugby matches, though that had as much to do with the fact he hadn't known the school had a rugby team as it had to do with his general disinterest in sports.

 _He's perfect_ , Sherlock's mind supplied before he immediately dismissed the thought. This stranger was _interesting_ , but that was all Sherlock could conclude without further study.

Having paused to stare for a bit longer than was socially acceptable, Sherlock forced himself to snap out of it. He sat with his book at a table nearby, deciding to stick around for a bit. It wasn't as if he had anything else on for the rest of the day. Besides, he told himself, it was probably easier to just get the information he needed from the book right then and there rather than having to check to book out and return it later.

He glanced up over the edge of his book, taking in his surroundings. And if his eyes happened to land on a certain stranger, well, that was just a happy coincidence.

The library, Sherlock decided, wasn't a bad place after all.

* * *

 **Hey there! Thank you so much for reading this, and please leave a comment if you have any feedback to give! The next chapter will be posted soon, and from then on a new one should be posted every few days. This story is already complete; I just have to go back and edit each chapter before I upload it.**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock went to the library every day for the next week. He told himself that it was merely because he hadn't finished his research for his paper on biochemistry. It had nothing at all to do with a certain rugby captain that happened to be there every afternoon from two until five.

After first spotting him that Monday afternoon, Sherlock had looked up the rugby team on their university's website. It had taken all of two minutes to find the name of the captain. John Watson. What a boring name for a decidedly not boring man.

Sherlock's eyes immediately went to John's usual table as he entered the library that Friday. John was sitting there, as per usual. Sherlock felt a bit warm, and he wondered if the library's heating system was acting up again.

"Hey, Sherlock, come over here." Seb's voice broke through his thoughts.

Sherlock mentally cursed himself for not passing the front desk fast enough. He glanced up to see a few of Seb's buddies hanging around, all of them staring at him. After only a moment's hesitation, Sherlock made his way toward them. While Seb trivialised his deductions, at least he provided an opportunity for Sherlock to show off.

"You've been denying me all week," Seb said lightheartedly when Sherlock reached them. "Come on, you've got to do your trick now. None of these guys here believe you can actually do it."

Sherlock gave them a tight smile. "It's not a trick," he murmured quietly. Still, he glanced at the members of the group, sorting through the minute details there.

"Oh, look, he's doing it," Seb pointed out, and Sherlock felt that he knew how zoo animals felt. "Go on, then; what can you tell about Matty here? Or Bernard?"

Sherlock turned to the one called Matty. "You were with two different girls last night. You didn't have time to change clothes after you left the second one. Had to get back to your actual girlfriend, I imagine. She doesn't know you're cheating on her, and you have no intention of telling her, but if you keep walking around in a shirt that has smears of two different types of lipstick on it—neither of which belongs to your girlfriend, who prefers gloss for her lips judging by that smudge on your cheek—you're bound to get caught." He turned to Bernard and smirked a bit. "You have traces of lip gloss on your neck, the same kind of lip gloss that Matty's girlfriend favours. I'm sure even you lot can make the connection there." It was always good to show off his talents, and when it caused discomfort for guys like that, that was all the better.

"You bastard," Matty shouted, lunging for Bernard, who seemed interested in going after Sherlock.

He knew by then when to make an exit, so he slipped away from the group before any physical harm could come to him. As he headed back toward the tables, he heard Seb say, "It's freakish, that trick, but damn if it isn't spot-on." Sherlock's steps only faltered for a moment, long enough for him to shut his eyes and take a deep breath, before he continued walking back toward the table he'd taken up in the past week.

As he sat down, he glanced up to see John Watson looking over at him, awe in his expression. But, no, that couldn't have been right. Sherlock was certain that he'd merely misread the look. He wondered if John had been able to hear his exchange with Seb's friends, and he found himself oddly curious as to what he had thought of it.

Seb's words rang back at him: _It's freakish, that trick_.

Sherlock fixed his eyes firmly down on the table. John would surely side with Seb on that one.

§

It was well before five o'clock when John left that evening. Sherlock wondered if he had managed to scare the man off, and he couldn't help the sinking feeling in his gut at that thought.

His phone buzzed, telling him that he had a new text from Molly. Sherlock read it immediately, grateful for the distraction from his own bitter thoughts.

 _Are you going to the rugby game tonight?_

Sherlock frowned. He hadn't known that there was a game scheduled for that evening. That would certainly explain why John had left early. Perhaps he hadn't scared the man off, after all.

 _Wasn't planning on it, but I'm sure I could find the time to accompany you if you wanted to go. SH_

Sherlock sent the text before he got the chance to regret it. He wasn't the type to attend sporting events, but he thought it might be an educational experience, if nothing else.

Molly's reply came after no more than a minute.

 _Really? You never agree to things that easily. Are you ill?_

Sherlock grimaced. He might have been a bit too obvious there. Best to take the focus off of himself, then.

 _I'm fine. I simply have nothing better to do tonight. Why are you so keen on going? You hate sports as much as I do. SH_

This time there was a slightly longer delay, and Sherlock knew that Molly was embarrassed about her reason, whatever it was.

 _If you must know, a guy on the rugby team invited me to watch the game._

Sherlock smirked. Molly's romantic life had been fairly non-existent since her attempts to pursue something with Sherlock, so it would be nice for her to have someone. Besides, Sherlock rather enjoyed when he could tease Molly about these things.

 _I'll go with you, but I'm leaving immediately afterward to give you and your new man some alone time. SH_

 _Thx. It starts at six._

 _I'll meet you there_. _SH_

* * *

 **Any feedback you might have is encouraged!**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock spent nearly an hour agonising over his appearance. He couldn't change clothes, obviously, as John had already seen him once that day. Changing his clothes would make it look like he was trying far too hard. Which he was, of course, but he couldn't let John know that.

It was nearing six when Sherlock realised that he didn't even know where the match would be taking place. Presumably there was a field of some sort, but he hardly ventured to that part of the campus. By the time he arrived, Molly had already taken a seat in the stands. He climbed up to join her.

"What took you so long?" she demanded as he sat beside her. "I've been sitting here for nearly twenty minutes by myself. It was starting to look rather pathetic."

"It took me a little while to find the field," he admitted. "And I'm sure Lestrade wouldn't have been bothered by you showing up by yourself. If anything, he might get jealous seeing you here with another man."

Molly looked up at him in slight horror. "How did you know it was him that invited me? Oh, god, have I been that obvious?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow up, a slight smirk on his lips.

"Right," she said, turning back to face the pitch. "Right, it's you. I should have known better than to think I had secrets."

"Exactly."

The team walked out from the nearby locker rooms at that point, led by their captain. Had Sherlock not been so distracted by John, he might have noticed that Lestrade kept glancing up at the stands. As it was, though, he couldn't have been expected to pay attention to anyone else right then. John looked incredibly good in that uniform. Too good. Sherlock felt a bit overheated again, though there was no faulty heating system he could blame right then.

It only got worse as they started playing. Sherlock didn't know the first thing about rugby, but he didn't need knowledge of the sport to appreciate the match. John, it turned out, could even look attractive when he was sweaty and covered in dirt. And, god, the way he tackled the other team's players. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was about that overt show of strength that was affecting him so much. He had never been a particularly sexual creature, but something about watching John Watson right then made him _feel_ things.

"Are you all right?" Molly asked him. He had almost forgotten that she was beside him. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, though it came out a little hoarse.

Molly gave him a strange look, clearly suspicious of his behaviour, but she thankfully didn't push the issue. "They're all rather fit, aren't they?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes fixed on John. "Yes, they really are."

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see Molly smirking at him, like she had just figured it all out, but he was far too distracted to pay much attention to that at the moment.

When the game ended, Sherlock didn't leave immediately as he had told Molly he would. The players had left the field to shower in the nearby locker room, and Molly was determined to stick around until Lestrade came out. Sherlock told himself that he was merely waiting there to keep her company, which was mostly true. It also had something to do with the fact that it was easier to hide certain, over-active parts of his anatomy while sitting down.

So he sat there with Molly until he caught a glimpse of Lestrade heading back out to meet them. "That's my cue," he told her, heading onto the pitch to begin the walk back to his room. His body had finally calmed himself, so he could thankfully move without being too much of an embarrassment.

"Hey, Sherlock," Lestrade called to him with a smile as they passed one another, Lestrade walking toward the stands Sherlock had just vacated.

"Hello," he said simply. They were in a criminology class together, and Lestrade wasn't totally intolerable. He asked about Molly often enough to verge on irritating, but Sherlock supposed that meant that the two of them would be good together.

"I'm just going to go…" Lestrade pointed over at Molly. "We were going to grab pizza." He hesitated. "Oh, you can come, if you want. I mean, you're more than welcome to join us."

Sherlock barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Really, with the man offering things like that, it was no wonder he and Molly hadn't done much of anything yet. "I'll pass," he said, walking away before Lestrade could make any more idiotic offers. He glanced back over his shoulder to watch the two of them talk, both blushing lightly and smiling. It was ridiculous. He would have called it disgusting if he hadn't been slightly jealous of what they had.

And that was how he quite literally ran into John Watson. Luckily, he didn't fall, though John did drop his mobile in the process. Sherlock immediately bent down to pick it up.

"I—" he started as he handed the phone back. He wasn't sure what to say, though, so he ended up merely letting the lone syllable hang there between them for a moment. The sight of a freshly showered John Watson was even more intoxicating than he could have ever imagined. John's sandy hair was sticking up at odd angles, but he managed to make that look ridiculously attractive all the same. His skin was still flushed from the hot water, and he smelled of soap. Sherlock wouldn't have been able to talk right then if he'd tried.

"Thanks," John said with a grin, and even his voice was perfect. "Hey, you're that hot bloke from the library, aren't you?"

Sherlock suddenly felt quite faint. He had always prided himself on being aloof in the face of comments from others, but even he couldn't prevent the blush that rose to his cheeks at John's words. He could only hope that it was minimal enough to not register to John's less observant eyes. God, he was an embarrassment. "I—I mean, I don't know if I'd say that, but I do see you at the library quite often."

John was still smiling at him in that ridiculously charming way. "That thing you did with Wilkes and his friends today—that was incredible. How did you figure out all that stuff about them?"

Sherlock was speechless for a moment. Incredible? First John called him hot, and now this? How was Sherlock supposed to function? He eventually managed to pull himself together enough to formulate a response. "I simply observed," he said in a poor attempt at a haughty tone.

"Well, it was amazing."

Sherlock bit his lip and ducked his head, unable to look at that brilliant grin anymore without risking permanent damage to his cognitive processes.

One of the other members of the team shouted John's name, and he glanced back at them.

"I've got to go," John said, gesturing to his teammate, and Sherlock couldn't tell if that disappointment in his tone was real or imagined. He turned to leave, before adding, "I'm John Watson, by the way."

Sherlock smiled politely as if this information was new to him. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, it was _very_ nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes." John flashed a grin and winked, and with that, he left.

Sherlock stared after him, blinking, processing, for nearly three full minutes before he finally pulled himself together. He was still smiling by the time he got back to his room.

* * *

 **Let me know if you have any comments/questions/concerns about this chapter or the work as a whole! The next chapter should be up by Tuesday or Wednesday.**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock didn't go to the library that weekend, despite the irrational urge to do just that. John wouldn't be there, he reminded himself. The captain of the rugby team surely had a social life that took up his weekends.

In order to keep himself from going mad, Sherlock had analysed every crime that had shown up in the papers for the last three days. Unfortunately, there weren't many, and the police had evidently done their jobs properly on the majority of them. There was one case, though, that Sherlock thought he could offer input on. He called in an anonymous tip, knowing that NSY wouldn't take him seriously if he went down there in person. (He had tried, and they had laughed him out of the room, even though he had been right.)

"In the Downing case," Sherlock said as his call was answered, "check to see if the brother has a green ladder. If he does, then he's the killer."

"I'm sorry, sir, but how did you come across this information?"

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh. "It was blatantly obvious from the article I read in the paper. Jack Downing was incredibly superstitious, and he couldn't swim. If his death were accidental, his brother would inherit the family home. Surely even you can put that together."

"Why a green ladder specifically, sir?" There was irritation in the operator's tone now.

"In the article, it said that the only suspicious activity found at the scene were chips of green paint on either side of the gravel pathway. It's _obvious_." And with that, Sherlock hung up. He supposed he would have to wait for a few days to see if the police actually did anything with his tip.

It was infuriating, having to wait. He was reminded just how much he loathed it as his last distraction had been used up in calling in that tip. It was still only Sunday afternoon, meaning he had to make it through several more hours still before he could see John again. God, he was pathetic. He pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Molly, thinking that she might offer some halfway decent company.

 _What are you doing? SH_

The reply came ridiculously slowly, considering she usually texted back after only a minute or two.

 _With Lestrade._

Sherlock groaned and tossed his phone across the room. Useless. Molly would be utterly unable to distract him if Lestrade was distracting her. What was the use in having friends if they couldn't be there to keep him occupied at a moment's notice? That was a ridiculous thing to expect, he knew, but he couldn't help it in his current state.

He even considered calling home, but he knew what Mummy would say. _Go take a walk, dear. It will help clear your head._ Taking a walk was her solution to everything when it came to him, but Sherlock hated walks just as much as he hated waiting. Or, perhaps, he hated walks _because_ he hated waiting. Walks, after all, merely forced him to wait quite a long time before reaching his destination.

A walk around campus, though, might not be such a bad thing, he decided. Before Friday, he hadn't even known where rugby games were held. Perhaps it was time to update his mental map of the campus. That would at least provide him with _something_ to do.

By nightfall, he had ended up back at the fields. He stood there for a bit, recalling how John had looked during the match. Sherlock would accompany Molly to as many rugby games as she wanted, he decided. He was just about to turn and walk back to his room when he heard a voice behind him.

"Hey, you," someone said, and Sherlock briefly wondered if he was hallucinating, because this was not just any _someone_. It was _that voice_. God, Sherlock loved that voice.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and turned around to find out who John Watson had been talking to. He expected to see the rugby captain standing a little ways off with one of his mates, but instead, John appeared to be alone. He was wearing a maroon jumper and jeans. There was smudged writing on his right hand. His hair looked wind-blown and gorgeous. And then, even more shocking that John being there in the first place, he actually started to approach where Sherlock was standing. He furrowed his brow and glanced over his shoulder, trying to inconspicuously check to see if there was anyone behind him. There wasn't, which meant—

"Hello," Sherlock said as John reached him. He was pleased he managed to get out two whole syllables in his current state of shock.

 _John_ had approached _him_. John had seen him walking around and had thought to announce his presence so that they could talk. Sherlock was starting to worry that he had developed a heart condition given the irregular beating it seemed to be doing lately.

"What are you doing out here all by yourself?" John asked, smiling at him. Sherlock simply adored that smile.

"I, er…" He paused. He couldn't exactly tell John his true reason for wandering around that night. _I was looking for something—anything—to do in order to keep my mind off of you_. He suppressed a wince. Yes, that would certainly not go over well, especially not when he was still uncertain of John's interest in men. At the game, it had definitely felt like John had been attracted to him, but he couldn't guarantee that the man was comfortable enough with his sexuality to want to pursue anything. Sherlock had gone down that path before, and he wasn't keen on repeating those experiences. "I just thought I needed a bit of fresh air." He remembered that John, too, was walking around the grounds on a Sunday evening. "And what are you doing out here?"

"Oh, you know," John said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "There's a party going on at my flat, and I got a little tired of it. I'm only a few blocks away, so I thought I'd come down here to clear my head a bit and to just…get away."

Sherlock carefully stored away this new information about John. Lived a few blocks from campus, likely with a party-loving roommate, but did not enjoy being at parties for too long at a time. That was interesting. Then again, any information about John was interesting.

"So," John said when Sherlock failed to think of an interesting contribution to the conversation. "You know that thing you did with Wilkes and his friends?"

"I deduced them," Sherlock supplied automatically.

John smiled at him. "Right—that. Can you do that to me?" He leaned a bit closer, smile turning to a smirk. "Can you _deduce_ me, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock wasn't sure how John could make such a simple statement sound downright predatory. He prayed that his cheeks hadn't turned bright red as he began to look John over, picking up on relatively minor details.

"You're a medical student. You maintain good marks in all of your courses, but you still feel the need to study relentlessly for them. You're twenty-three years old, and you're left-handed. You're not an only child; you've got a brother named Harry that you're not exactly close to, but you do sometimes try to put in the token effort. You're likely primarily putting yourself through school with very little assistance from your parents. You don't come from a wealthy family, and you're only able to attend this university because of scholarships and the minimal money you make from your job. You work long hours on the weekends—at a bakery, I'd wager." Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second before adding, "And you're bisexual, though it's unlikely that you've openly dated a man, but you're not opposed to the possibility of it." He wasn't sure of that last bit, but it would be good to see John's reaction to the statement.

John took a breath, letting out in a huff of what sounded like laughter. "You…are absolutely incredible."

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat a bit. He recalled Wilkes' friends' reactions to his deductions and decided that he preferred John's. People rarely took the time to praise him, as they were more likely to be too offended by what he revealed than to appreciate the accuracy. "Really?" he couldn't help but ask.

John smiled widely at him. "Really. But—how did you know all of that? You just observed it all?"

Sherlock offered a small smile in return. "Yes, essentially. I know you're a medical student because the books you bring with you to the library are all for courses required for anyone studying medicine. Judging by the books you have, I can estimate exactly how far along in your studies you are, leading me to believe that you're twenty-three years old."

"How did you know about Harry?" John looked intrigued. His eyes were alight with _something_ , and his lips kept quirking up at the edges, like he was fighting back a smile.

"You've got 'Call Harry' written on your right hand. This indicates left-handedness as well. The name is smudged, and has clearly been rewritten multiple times. You feel obligated to get in contact with this person, clearly, but you haven't yet motivated yourself to do that. A familial connection is most likely, then. If it was a friend, you wouldn't feel so conflicted about not phoning them back."

"Fantastic," John said, and Sherlock's thought processes faltered for a moment.

"Your books are in poor condition, so they're likely the cheapest used versions you can get. You clearly don't spend money on buying new clothes, as everything in your wardrobe appears to be a few years old. Money is tight, then."

"And the bakery?" John prompted, leaning closer still. "How did you know I worked at a bakery?"

Sherlock felt a shy smile unfurling on his lips. "You've got a bit of flour just…there." He pointed toward John's cheek, where a bit of the stuff had gathered. "And there's some on your sleeves as well. A bakery seemed the most likely option."

John shook his head in disbelief. "You're a marvel, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock ducked his head, trying to hide his ridiculous grin and his burning cheeks. He _definitely_ had a heart condition, he concluded.

"There's only one thing you missed."

Sherlock's head snapped up at that, his expression immediately sobering. He had missed something? Impossible. Sherlock didn't miss things, except maybe when he was competing against Mycroft. Still, he was fairly certain of every one of his deductions.

"Harry's my sister." John grinned, clearly amused.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. "A _sister_ ," he lamented.

John laughed, and Sherlock oddly didn't feel like he was being laughed _at_. "You're still absolutely incredible."

Sherlock felt that blush coming on again.

He was simultaneously thankful and disappointed when John's mobile rang. He answered it.

"Hi…oh, shit, really? Damn…yeah, I can be there soon…don't let him out of your sight. Bye." John pocketed the phone before glancing up at Sherlock, his expression apologetic.

Sherlock tried to affect an understanding smile. "Trouble at the party?"

John grimaced. "Yeah. Apparently my roommate's gone and thrown up in someone's shoes. I've got to go back there to help clean up and to make sure he gets to bed."

Sherlock barely refrained from sighing wistfully. "Well, you'd better get back before he vomits in something else."

"Yeah." But John didn't move right away. Instead, he merely stood there, looking at Sherlock for a moment before he seemed able to tear himself away. Sherlock allowed himself to feel flattered. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" John said, starting to back away.

"Yes, I'll see you tomorrow," Sherlock confirmed, and he stood there, staring, until John was out of sight.

* * *

 **I forgot to respond to comments in the last chapter, so I'm going to do that here. Thank you so much to Tori-Bird627 and Bombafan for taking the time to write a review. You guys are truly great and I hope that this chapter finds you well!**

 **I really love getting feedback on my work, so feel free to leave a comment if you have anything at all to say about the story so far! The next chapter should be up by Friday.**


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock was three years old, his parents brought home an Irish setter puppy.

"His name is Joey," Mummy told him.

Sherlock eyed the dog warily, having never seen one up close before. He reached out his hand, ever so cautiously, and gently stroked along the dog's back. Joey immediately moved closer to Sherlock and set about licking his face. At the time, Sherlock had been sure that the dog was smiling back at him. He giggled his little giggle and held his hands up in front of his face in a halfhearted attempt at deterring Joey's loving attack.

Sherlock spent the next several days in the dog's presence, and soon enough, Joey would follow him around wherever he went.

At about the same time, Sherlock discovered pirates. His parents had given him a book that told him all about a pirate named Blackbeard. Sherlock decided that he would be a pirate when he grew up, and he took to wearing an eye-patch he had crafted out of one of his father's socks.

"You can be my first mate," Sherlock told Joey, who wagged his tail happily. Sherlock took that to mean that the dog was on board. "But you'll need a pirate name."

And he thought and thought and thought about it for the rest of his day, nearly exhausting his three-year-old self. Finally, he came up with something. When Mummy returned that evening, Sherlock walked up to her, the dog close behind.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said with a smile, taking in his eye-patch with apparent amusement. "And hello to you, too, Joey," she added when the dog butted his nose into her leg.

"He hates the name Joey," Sherlock told Mummy knowingly. "He wants his name to be Redbeard instead so he can be a pirate like me."

Mummy laughed good-naturedly at that. "Is that so?" And because the dog had become so devoted to little Sherlock, she agreed to inform the rest of the family that his name had been changed.

When Sherlock started school, Redbeard had cried and whined and pawed at the door for hours after he left. Sherlock had felt like doing the same thing. The children in his class were loud and demanding and sometimes very angry. Sometimes they weren't bad, though, so Sherlock figured that it was all right.

As he got older, he could feel himself standing out from the other children a bit more. He was too loud at times and too quiet at others. He was too curious, and his parents indulged that too much. He often felt like he wasn't speaking the same language as the other kids, and he hated it.

And then they started to notice that he was different as well. That was when it started to get worse. They turned cruel. They would call him names when they thought he wasn't listening; sometimes, they would do it when they knew he was. The words hurt, and Sherlock would go home in tears more often than not.

Redbeard was never cruel. Redbeard was always eagerly awaiting his return home, sitting by the door until he walked through it. Sherlock would bury his face in the dog's fur until his tears had all dried up, and Redbeard would let him, would simply sit there with him until he was better. Redbeard was his best friend.

And then age had set in, and Redbeard started to get sick.

"The vet needs to put him to sleep," Mummy had told him. He was eleven years old, and he knew what that meant. It meant that Redbeard would not be coming back.

He screamed when the dog was taken away, and Redbeard had looked back at him. Sherlock imagined that he hadn't wanted to go either. He cried for days, because his best friend was no longer there to help dry the tears.

 _It's easier,_ Mycroft had told him, _when you simply pretend you don't have a heart._

§

Sherlock met Victor when he was fifteen. He had been flattered that someone like Victor, two years older and infinitely more experienced, had taken an interest in him.

Victor would invite him over, always under the guise of helping one another study (Sherlock was clever enough to be taking advanced courses), and he taught Sherlock all about carnal pleasure. They never went very far, as Sherlock was still largely terrified of all of that.

"You're gorgeous," Victor would tell him. "I so glad I have you all to myself, and you've got me." And Sherlock, inexperienced as he had been, had believed him.

After months of kissing and over-the-clothes touching, Victor asked Sherlock for something more. Sherlock, who fancied himself in love at that point, had readily complied, eager to please. Sherlock brought Victor off with his hand that night, and it was the most intimate thing he had ever done with anyone before.

The following day at school, someone called Sherlock gay. He was, so he didn't deny it, but he saw the look on Victor's face as it was said. There was shock in his expression, as if he hadn't expected anyone to come right out and say it.

Sherlock later wondered if that was the moment Victor realised that his own sexuality might come under the same scrutiny.

And just like that, everything changed. Victor didn't invite him over very often anymore, and when he did, he merely asked for that same intimate act over and over again. Sherlock always agreed to it, never asked for anything in return. He could feel Victor slipping away, and he was desperately trying to do anything in his power to hold onto him.

A few weeks later, Sherlock heard his classmates talking about Victor's new girlfriend. Her name was Cynthia, and she was blonde and pretty and giggled quite a bit.

Victor never invited him over again. Wouldn't even look at him, really. Pretended they had never known each other.

Sherlock cried for the first time since Redbeard had died, and he started to wonder if Mycroft might have been right all those years ago.

§

In hindsight, he really should have seen the pattern developing. Caring only led to pain.

§

On Sunday night, Sherlock dreamt that he and John were holding hands in the library. Just holding hands, out in the open, for anyone to see. And John was smiling at him, and he didn't seem at all ashamed to be seen with him.

It had felt so real that Sherlock allowed himself to entertain the belief that John might actually want him like that.

It was ridiculous to indulge in such thoughts just because of a dream, he knew, but knowing it didn't stop him from spending two hours carefully sorting out his appearance on Monday morning so that he could look his best for John. Sherlock had to look perfect, because John always looked perfect, and Sherlock would have at least liked to be on the same level as him for once. _Maybe,_ he thought, _John will ask me out_. It was a terribly fanciful notion, and he dismissed it immediately, but the lingering hope refused to go away.

By the time two o'clock had rolled around, Sherlock had changed three times and had restyled his hair seven times. He was as bad as Molly was (she had once made him sit around for two hours while she tried on every outfit she owned before going on a date), and he couldn't even bring himself to care.

Sherlock walked into the library at five minutes after two—a carefully calculated five minutes so that he wouldn't seem too eager but would still arrive early enough so as not to discourage John. Luckily, Seb was dealing with a student when he entered, so he was spared from having to put up with the man. Sherlock took up his usual table and pulled a few books out before glancing up at John. He flushed and looked away when he realised that John was already looking at him. When he peeked back up, John offered him a smile, which Sherlock carefully returned.

He recalled how John had talked to him on Friday and then again the day before. John had called him hot and had been impressed by his deductions. All of that, right down to the way John had said goodbye after the rugby match, seemed blatantly flirtatious. Sherlock knew that considering it as such was a dangerous thing to do, but he was fairly certain he hadn't misinterpreted their interaction. Besides, John hadn't denied Sherlock's deduction about his sexual orientation, meaning that he likely was indeed interested in men as well as women. Just this once, Sherlock allowed himself to embrace the hope that had been plaguing him all morning.

He bit his lip as he considered going over there to join John at his table. Surely he wouldn't be opposed, especially not if he actually had been flirting with Sherlock before.

He was just about to get up and sit by John when the man himself stood up and walked toward him instead. He didn't bring his books, which meant that he was likely planning on returning to his own table at some point, but Sherlock was still thrilled that John had thought to come over to him at all.

"Hey there," John greeted, that charming smile in place again.

Sherlock smiled back hesitantly. "Hello."

"What are you studying?"

Sherlock paused for a moment as he tried to remember what he had come to the library to study in the first place. He had to look down at his books in order to remind himself. "Chemistry," he said at last. John was certainly going to think him slow when it kept taking him several seconds to respond.

"Do you like chemistry?" And the way John said it, it sounded like a far more significant question than it should have.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes." While he was rather embarrassed that he couldn't seem to get out any proper responses, he was actually slightly pleased that he had been able to say anything at all with John looking at him like that.

"I'll come to you if I ever need anyone to help me with chemistry, then," John said.

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that.

Luckily, John continued on. "I had to take biochem, and it killed me. Maybe you can help me brush up on it sometime." He was perched on the edge of the table, leaning down, and Sherlock suddenly remembered his dream. The image of them holding hands didn't really seem out of place right then, and Sherlock felt his face grow flushed at the thought.

He ducked his head a bit. "You hardly need help in biochem," he said at last. "You did quite well in the class."

John beamed at him. "Incredible. You're really incredible, you know that?"

Sherlock stared at John before allowing a slight smile to appear on his lips. "That's not what people usually say."

"Yeah, I imagine they usually react the way those idiots did last Friday. They asked for it, though. I mean, they shouldn't have goaded you into doing it if they had something they wanted to hide." John actually looked genuinely frustrated on his behalf about the way Wilkes' friends had reacted. Sherlock didn't know what to do with that.

He opened his mouth to say _something_ when a girl came up and tapped John on the shoulder. She had light brown hair and a relatively pretty face, and she was obviously _very_ comfortable with John, given the fact that her hand remained on his shoulder even as he turned around to face her.

"Sarah," he said pleasantly, and when he hugged her in greeting, she kissed his cheek. That wasn't a common form of greeting for people their age unless a romantic relationship was involved.

Sherlock felt ill.

"John," she said in return, and her hand was _still on his arm_. John didn't back away from the contact, which was the worst part.

The signs were all there. John's impeccable appearance, her obvious comfort with him, the way they looked at one another. They were dating, Sherlock concluded, and he really felt like he was going to retch. God, he had been so foolish. How had he let himself believe that John Watson might actually be interested in _him_? What sort of idiot was he? He always prided himself on being better than the general masses, but clearly he had been wrong. He was no better than the rest of them.

Immediately, he packed up his things and stood, ready to leave.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" John asked, his tone concerned.

Sherlock ignored him. He was such a fool.


	6. Chapter 6

"You're moping," Molly told him. She had asked him to help her study for an upcoming exam, and as he had steadfastly refused to go to the library to do that, the two of them were currently seated on the floor of his room, books and notes spread between them.

"I'm not moping," he said. "There's nothing to even mope about, really."

Molly's expression was tinged with pity. Sherlock couldn't bear it.

"Oh, stop looking at me like that," he muttered, crossing his arms and turning away from her.

"I will when you stop looking so heartbroken," she countered.

Sherlock scoffed. Heartbroken. _Can't break what you never had,_ he reminded himself.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it in slight frustration. If he didn't have a heart, then why did it still hurt like this? He felt pathetic. He had imagined that he could have something with John, but, really, why would John Watson want someone like him? He had deluded himself into thinking there was something there, but there hadn't been. Or perhaps John had simply changed his mind, like Victor had done.

He briefly considered the fact that John might have done all of that on purpose, just to play around with his emotions, but he wasn't sure John could be that cruel, that manipulative, without him picking up on something of the sort. Besides, though he hurt, he was still inclined to believe that John Watson was a near-perfect human specimen.

"What happened?" Molly asked him, and Sherlock shook himself from his thoughts.

"It's nothing." Molly gave him another look, and he sighed. "Fine. I was attracted to someone, and I actually believed for a moment that it might be mutual, but it wasn't."

"How do you know it wasn't?"

"He has a girlfriend."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Molly processing this new information. They had never discussed his sexuality, but he knew that Molly had often suspected that he might be solely interested in members of his own gender.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she said at last.

Sherlock merely shrugged, not quite looking at her. He shouldn't have even been upset about it. After all, it wasn't as if John had promised him anything. The perceived flirting Sherlock had picked up on was likely John's natural friendliness coming out. They had only been in contact with one another for about a week. No strong attachment should have been formed in such a short span of time.

And yet.

Sherlock tried to clear his thoughts. He would not be upset about this. He would get over it. He hardly needed romantic attachments, anyway.

He took a deep breath and let it out. "Give me an example of an E1cB reaction," he said, and Molly seemed to take the hint that the personal discussion was over for the time being.

§

During the following week, Sherlock focused primarily on his studies. It was rare for him to attend lectures as often as he did that week, but he hardly cared that he had changed his routine. He needed to keep himself occupied.

On the weekend, he repeated what he had done before and merely worked through as many cases as he could get access to without being invited by the police. A few of the tips he called in were actually taken seriously, and he was asked to come in and give a statement. No one commented on his age when he went down to Scotland Yard, and one of the DI's actually took down Sherlock's number in case his assistance was needed on another tricky case. It was far more gratifying to be recognised than he had expected, and Sherlock even went so far as to give the man a parting smile on his way out of the building.

Sherlock was so thrilled about the recognition that he actually managed to forget all about John Watson for a few days. It was well into the next week before he remembered the man at all, and that was only because he was being forced to go back to the library again after abstaining from it since he had seen John and Sarah together.

There was a paper he had to write for his organic chemistry class. Why organic chemistry was requiring papers to be written was beyond him. All he knew was that he needed to get it done, and there was only one more source he required. Unfortunately, as per his luck, he could only seem to get access to that source in the library.

He briefly considered sending Molly into the library to fetch it for him, but he dismissed the thought as being ridiculous. He shouldn't have been scared off of an entire building just because he was embarrassed about what had happened with John. What _hadn't_ happened with John, more like. There was no reason for him to be acting so ridiculous after almost two weeks of not seeing the man.

Sherlock planned to go into the library on Thursday at noon. Coincidentally, John's usual schedule did not permit him to be in the library on Thursdays at noon.

He only hesitated for a moment outside of the library's doors before pushing his way inside.

"Hey, look at that," Seb Wilkes said as Sherlock entered.

Sherlock paused and shut his eyes, trying to force himself not to care about whatever it was that Wilkes wanted.

"Come on, Sherlock. Go ahead and do your little trick."

He fought back a wince, as always. It was so demeaning to hear his deductions referred to like that. He had worked hard to get as proficient as he was, and Wilkes wanted nothing more than to make him a circus freak, an oddity that could perform on command.

The worst part was, though, that he would keep doing it. He would keep trying and keep trying to get accepted into their ranks, to be recognised by his peers. He had been denied that all his life, but, oh, how he wanted it.

Sparing Sebastian only a brief glance, Sherlock said, "Your girlfriend is cheating on you, and you had a sex dream last night about your best mate. Good day." He couldn't quite verify that either claim was true, but the indignant sputtering he heard behind him suggested that he was right on at least one of those points. Good. That ought to keep Seb off his back for a bit.

Sherlock located the book he needed easily enough. His time spent in the library observing John had at least taught him how the books were organised. That was one good thing that had come out of that mess, he supposed. On instinct, he nearly walked back toward his usual table, immediately glancing up to where John sat. Except John wasn't sitting there, obviously, because John didn't come to the library at twelve o'clock on Thursdays. Instead, Sarah, John's girlfriend, was sitting in John's usual seat. She caught his eye and smiled before pulling out her phone and quickly sending off a text. Sherlock turned away. He claimed a table in the back corner of the room, hoping to discourage anyone from interrupting him. He just needed a few minutes with this book, and he would be out of there. Ten minutes, tops.

He was so absorbed in jotting down the relevant information in his notebook that he didn't even notice that anyone had approached his table until someone cleared their throat from above him.

Sherlock's head snapped up, and he was prepared to shout at the person who had so rudely intruded on his space. The words died in his throat, however, when he saw that it was John Watson himself standing there.

"Hi," John said, shuffling his feet a little awkwardly.

John's cheeks were flushed, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow like he had been running. That didn't make sense, though, as he had obviously just come from class. Given that it was noon and most classes didn't end until twelve-thirty, Sherlock thought it was likely that John had merely left in the middle of class to get there. He wasn't sure why John would do such a thing.

When Sherlock failed to reply, John merely continued talking. "Do you mind if I sit here? There's someone at my usual table."

Sherlock glanced over to where John typically sat. Sarah was still there, clearly trying to pretend like she wasn't watching the two of them interact. Nearly all of the other tables in the room were empty. None of this was making sense.

"I'm sure your girlfriend wouldn't mind you sitting with her," Sherlock said at last.

John let out a startled laugh. "My girlfriend? God, no, Sarah isn't my girlfriend." When Sherlock continued to look sceptical, John added, "I mean, yeah, we used to date, and we're pretty close still, but we're just friends." He furrowed his brow. "Is that why you freaked out two weeks ago?"

Sherlock let those words sink over him, assessed the sincerity in John's features, and he felt like an absolute fool for an entirely different reason than before. John and Sarah had never been dating, and he had been so driven by emotions that he had stormed off before truly analysing the nature of their relationship. He had thought the signs had all been there, but clearly he had been wrong. He was such an idiot.

He felt his cheeks heat, and he dropped his face into his hands. "This is utterly embarrassing," he mumbled, and John just laughed playfully.

"I take it that means I can sit down?"

Sherlock lifted one hand away from his face to gesture at the chair opposite him. "Be my guest."

It took him another minute or so to pull himself together and to remove the heat from his cheeks. When he felt confident that he looked as calm as he ever could, he lifted his head and tried to bury himself in the book he was meant to searching through. With John sitting just across the table, though, it was incredibly difficult to get himself to concentrate. John kept glancing up at him and smiling, and it was driving Sherlock absolutely mad. He was out of his depth in a way that he hadn't been since Victor.

They spent nearly an hour in each other's presence in absolute silence, merely working opposite one another and occasionally passing smiles across the table. Sherlock had estimated that he would only need ten minutes to get the information he needed, but he simply kept re-writing it over and over and over again to give himself something to do. He would have simply left and promised to see John later, but he was still confused as to what was happening here.

Fact: John was single.

Fact: Sherlock was interested in John.

Fact: John had chosen to sit by him when Sarah was present.

Fact: John had chosen to sit by him even when there were dozens of free tables.

Conclusion: John was interested in him? [Redacted.] No conclusions to be drawn presently.

Eventually, Sherlock was getting far too bored to keep up the pretense of being busy any longer. He began to pack his things away, noting that John immediately looked over at him as he started to move.

"You're heading out?" John asked, putting his pen down. All of his attention was on Sherlock. It was intoxicating.

"Yes. I've got all I need from this book." Even still, he hovered awkwardly by the table for a bit longer than necessary. "Well, I suppose I'll see you later."

John smiled. "Yeah, I suppose you will."

Sherlock returned the smile and made to move away.

"Wait," John said, and Sherlock stopped immediately, relieved. "I know we haven't known each other that long, but you kind of disappeared recently, and I'm not sure when I'll get to see you again." He took a breath, obviously steeling himself for something. "So I was just wondering if you…"

Unbidden, the thought that John was about to ask him out crossed his mind. He felt hope flare within him, bright and hot and unexpected.

"I was wondering if you would come to the rugby game tomorrow," John said eventually, and Sherlock felt that hope deflate. Not a date, then, but at least John was expressing a desire to see him again. That was more than he should have ever dared hope for, really. "There's going to be a party afterward hosted by the team, and I was thinking that maybe you'd like to go to that. It might be kind of stupid, but it could also be pretty fun, I think. So…what do you think?"

Sherlock considered it. He generally did not enjoy taking time out of his day to go to sporting events, let alone sporting events followed by sports teams' parties. Still, this would be a rugby game, in which John would get sweaty and would tackle people and would generally look _very good_ , and then there would be a party hosted by the rugby team, at which John would be present and would talk to him some more. Sherlock supposed that it wouldn't be terrible. Besides, he could always bring Molly along. She would surely be interested in attending a rugby party, if only to find the chance to talk to Lestrade a bit more.

"That would be fine," Sherlock said at last, nodding once.

John beamed up at him, and Sherlock was momentarily dazed by that brilliant grin and those sparkling eyes. "Great," John said, sounding incredibly enthusiastic about his response. He pulled his phone out and handed it to Sherlock. "Here, put your number in. That way we'll be able to arrange where to meet up once the game's over."

Sherlock got over his initial shock quickly enough and typed in his name and number in John's phone before handing it back.

John smiled brightly at him again. "Fantastic. I'll see you tomorrow, then, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely nodded blankly for a moment before remembering that he was supposed to be leaving the library. "Right," he said, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. "Right. I'll see you tomorrow, John." And he got out of the library as quickly as he could to keep from making more of an idiot of himself.

§

The texts started coming in that very evening, just after Sherlock had returned to his room.

 _Hey there. Now you have my number, too._

 _This is John Watson, by the way._

Sherlock couldn't help the small smile that tugged up at his lips.

 _I figured as much. SH_

The reply came mere seconds later, and Sherlock felt a bit warm at the thought of John watching his phone, waiting for Sherlock's text.

 _Do you always sign your texts like that?_

 _Yes. SH_

 _I like it. JW_

Sherlock smiled down at his phone, thumbs hovering over the keys. He could very well write something mundane and nonessential in reply. However, that ran the risk of making him look desperate to continue the conversation (which he was, but John didn't need to know that). Instead, then, Sherlock locked his phone screen and tossed it onto his desk. This way, he ideally wouldn't seem too desperate. Or perhaps he would just come off as cold and uncaring. He bit his lip, staring over at his mobile. Why was this so difficult? He texted Molly all the time, and he had never put so much effort into a simple conversation before.

 _You're pathetic_ , he told himself, though it sounded rather like his brother's voice. That still didn't stop him from rereading that brief conversation twelve times before he finally settled in for the night.


	7. Chapter 7

"There's another rugby match tonight, isn't there?" Sherlock asked as casually as possible at lunch on Friday.

He must have missed the mark, though, because Molly eyed him suspiciously. "There is," she said at last. "Why? Were you thinking of going?" Yes, there was definitely suspicion there.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and picked apart the food in front of him. His stomach felt far too fluttery for him to even think about eating anything just yet. "If you wanted to go, I thought I might tag along. It was interesting last time we went."

Molly definitely knew something was up at that point. Sherlock rarely deigned to call anything 'interesting.' "Greg invited me to go, so I was thinking about it." She paused, studying him, before adding, "There's a party afterward I might go to. You can come along, if you want."

Sherlock knew that this was a test, but he couldn't exactly back out now. After all, he had told John that he would go to the party. He fought back a smile at the memory of John inviting him to all of this in the first place. "That might not be unbearable," he said.

Molly smacked him in the arm. He sat back and glared at her. "What was that for?"

Molly looked unapologetic. "You hate going to sports games, and you _really_ hate parties, and now you're just volunteering to go to both?"

"Rugby isn't terribly boring, and it's been ages since I've actually been to a party, so…" Sherlock shrugged, hoping she would buy that answer.

She didn't. "You're into one of the rugby guys, aren't you?"

"I don't know what led you to that conclusion," Sherlock muttered, trying to turn his attention back to his food.

Molly clapped her hands together. "Oh, you _so_ are. This is so exciting. Will you tell me who he is?"

Sherlock looked up to glare at her halfheartedly. "Keep your voice down. People will hear you. And, no, you cannot know which one he is, because I'm not interested in any of them." That was a total lie; even he didn't believe it. While he had tried to convince himself that he was no longer interested in John, he couldn't help but feel the resurgence of those feelings he'd had for the man every time they spoke.

Molly thankfully let the issue drop. "Whatever you say, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured, which meant that she didn't believe his lie, either.

§

 _You're still coming to the match tonight, right? JW_

The text came in as Sherlock was preparing for said match. He still had an hour let before he would need to head out to the field, but he needed every second of that time to ensure that he looked decent enough. They would be going to a party after, which meant that some alcohol consumption might blur John's perception of him enough to compensate for not looking great, but he could hardly rely on that. If John decided not to drink, then he would be out of luck if he had planned to depend on it entirely.

He picked up his phone, grateful for the excuse to look away from his closet for the first time in what felt like ages.

 _Yes, I'm still going. SH_

As with the night before, the reply came in seconds, indicating that John had had his mobile out and ready to respond.

 _Great! I'll need to have a shower first before we head over to the party, but I'll try to be quick about it. JW_

 _I'll wait for you by the locker rooms after the game, then. SH_

 _Perfect :) JW_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the emoticon, but he couldn't help the slight smile that rose to his lips. It seemed that he found everything John Watson did to be endearing. Before he could think of a response, another text came in.

 _I've got to go warm up now, but I'll see you in an hour. JW_

 _See you in an hour, John. SH_

Sherlock continued smiling down at his mobile for a full minute before he remembered that he was meant to be using that time to be getting ready. He pocketed the device and turned his attention back to his appearance.

In the end, he settled on wearing a pair of dark jeans (tight, because he did want to be at least a little bit provocative) and a charcoal button-up (also tight, with the buttons undone slightly more than usual). It wasn't his flashiest outfit by far, but it would show off his body without giving him the appearance of trying too hard (hopefully).

After running his fingers through his hair one final time, he headed out to the fields, thankful that his updated mental map allowed him to arrive on time. It was easy to spot Molly in the stands. She was wearing a light pink dress that, while attractive enough, seemed slightly out of place for the chill in the air. She was smart, though, and had also brought a heavy coat along with her. Sherlock sat beside her, ignoring the little smirk she gave him.

"See your man out there?" she asked, nodding toward the players warming up around the pitch.

"I certainly see yours," Sherlock muttered in reply.

Molly merely gave a little laugh. At least she wasn't denying that she and Lestrade had a _thing_ going on anymore. It seemed that the dates they'd been on recently had been going well.

Sherlock watched as the teams assembled into some kind of formation, likely indicating that the match was about to start. Much to his surprise, John glanced up at the stands as he took his place. The rugby captain smiled brightly and waved when he caught sight of Sherlock. Sherlock felt his cheeks heat a bit as he waved back, hoping in vain that Molly had missed the gesture.

She hadn't. She smacked him in the arm, a grin in place on her features. "Oh, my god," she whispered. "I can't believe you've got the hots for John Watson!"

"Keep your voice," Sherlock demanded despite the fact that Molly had been doing just that. "It's nothing. He and I are just friends." Or were they even that much? Sherlock could never really tell with these things. He hoped that he would be able to read some sort of clues from John during the party as to the nature of their relationship.

"You and I are just friends," Molly told him softly, "and I've never seen you look at me like that. Even when I was mad about you, you never looked at me like that." Her smile turned wistful for a moment, and he opened his mouth to say something—apologise maybe—but she held up a hand, cutting him off. "It's fine, really. I'm definitely over that. I'm just saying." She shrugged.

Sherlock nodded at her, not really sure what else to do.

Luckily, the match started, and he was spared from any further conversation. As with the last match he had attended, John looked incredibly while playing. At one point, a member of the opposing team elbowed John in the gut. It had apparently been fairly painful, because when John had recovered his breath, he looked _furious_. He proceeded to go after that particular player with a focused sort of revenge. And, god, he looked incredible when he was angry. Sherlock felt rather overheated. He even went so far as to roll up his shirtsleeves. He then forced himself to concentrate very hard on keeping _every_ part of his anatomy under control, as he could hardly risk embarrassing himself when he met up with John later.

Thankfully, he managed to keep himself together through the end of the match. He and Molly walked over toward the locker rooms, where all the players were taking their post-game showers, and Sherlock really needed to think about something else before he ruined his calm streak. He took a deep breath, let it out, slowed his heart rate. He just had to remain calm. After all, this was just going to be an outing between friends, right? What was the worst that could happen?


	8. Chapter 8

**I've got this chapter up a little early (someone on AO3 was adamant about an update sooner, and I figured no one would mind). Just a warning, there will be some sexually explicit content in this chapter, so if you're uncomfortable with that, send me a private message and I can send you a clean version of the chapter if you want.**

* * *

As they waited for John and Lestrade to finish their showers, Sherlock tried to ensure that he still looked presentable. He smoothed his hair down and did the same with his shirt. He wondered if Molly had a mirror on hand. That would have certainly been useful right then.

An elbow collided softly with his ribs. "You don't have to be so nervous," Molly told him when he looked up at her.

Sherlock scoffed, as if it was ridiculous to assume that he was anxious in any way, and made a conscious effort after that to appear outwardly unaffected.

Close to ten minutes had passed by the time John walked out of the building. (Nine minutes and forty-eight seconds, but who was counting?) He was smiling, his hair still damp. He had changed out of his gear and into a pair of dark jeans and a beige T-shirt. Despite its plain colour, the shirt clung to the musculature of his torso in ridiculously pleasant ways. Sherlock forced himself not to stare.

"Wow," John said as he walked over toward them, flicking his eyes up to meet Sherlock's. "I mean, hi. You ready to head out?"

Sherlock smiled, choosing to take John's 'wow' as a compliment. "I thought we should wait for Lestrade first." He gestured over toward Molly, who looked like she was feeling a little out of place.

John turned to face Molly, surprise in his features like he had just noticed her there. "Oh, sorry," he said, smiling briefly at her in greeting. He looked between Sherlock and Molly for a moment, looking for all the world like he was assessing what he saw there. After a minute, he appeared to be satisfied, nodding. "Yeah, Greg should be finishing up any minute now. I'll just…go in and check on him, I guess." He called, "Don't move," to them as he walked back into the locker rooms.

Molly was giving him a _look_. Sherlock pretended to ignore her. She apparently thought better of trying to bring it up with him right then, as she remained silent. Sherlock was glad for that. Standing so close to the entrance of the building meant they ran the risk of being overheard by any rugby players who were in the immediate area.

It was another two minutes before John reemerged with Lestrade in tow. He immediately left Lestrade with Molly and stepped up to Sherlock's side.

"Ready now?" he asked, smiling up at Sherlock, who nodded.

Molly and Lestrade came up beside them. "We're going to start heading over," Molly said, putting her hand on Sherlock's arm to get his attention briefly.

"I think we were going to start walking over as well," he said, and when he turned back to John to get confirmation, he found that John's eyes were on Molly's hand.

It took a moment before John seemed able to tear himself away and meet Sherlock's curious gaze. "Yeah, we were. Here, I know a shortcut." He put his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, glancing over at Molly and Lestrade before setting off.

Sherlock was so in shock at the contact that he almost didn't pay attention to where they were going. Even more shocking was the fact that John didn't drop his hand immediately, instead keeping it in place until they walked into the party.

"Wait here," John told him, squeezing his arm briefly before heading off in one direction.

Sherlock stayed where he was, pressed against the wall, because he wasn't entirely certain what else to do. He didn't go to parties often, and he had no interest in socialising with anyone else that was in attendance. He merely hoped that John actually planned on returning to him at some point.

Before he had the chance to doubt himself too much, John reappeared at his side, two drinks in hand. "I've got whiskey and rum," he said. "Which do you want?"

Sherlock had only ever had a bit of wine before, despite being twenty years old. Drinking had simply never come up, as he usually avoided the kinds of situations in which alcohol consumption was prevalent. "Rum," he said at last, not really sure which would be better.

John handed him one of the cups. "Cheers," he said, tipping his own cup against Sherlock's. He took a swig of his whiskey, making a face as he swallowed it down. "Damn, that's strong."

Sherlock hesitantly sniffed at his own drink, nearly recoiling as the smell assaulted him. Not wanting John to think him weak, though, Sherlock took a healthy sip of the rum. He forced himself to swallow the mouthful, despite its awful taste.

John chuckled good-naturedly beside him. "You don't drink much, do you?" he asked.

Sherlock coughed.

"Yeah, didn't think so. You don't really strike me as the type to go partying on the weekends."

"You don't strike me as that type, either," he told John, clearing his throat one last time.

A slow smile unfurled on John's lips. "It's not so bad when you've got the right company."

They were both leaning up against a wall for support, but Sherlock still felt unsteady in the face of John's words. His cheeks heated, though whether that was from the drink or from the apparent compliment, he couldn't tell. "Yes, well, I suppose I've always been lacking the right company until now," he murmured.

John was still looking at him, still smiling, eyes so warm. Sherlock turned his attention to his drink instead, downing half of it in one go. He coughed just after he'd swallowed it. John laughed again and reached up to thump him on the back, his hand lingering even after Sherlock's coughing had stopped.

"You might want to try pacing yourself," John advised.

"I never pace myself," Sherlock informed him.

"No, I guess you wouldn't." John knocked back a bit more of his whiskey. "So, what do you do for fun, Sherlock?"

"I try to solve crimes I read about in the papers," he replied, not really sure why he felt the need to be so honest about that part of his life. He figured that John would be intrigued, though, given the man's previous reactions to his observational skills. "And I like experimenting." At John's raised eyebrows Sherlock flushed and hastily tried to correct John's assumptions. "Scientific experiments. Not—not any other kinds." Sherlock took another sip of his drink to prevent himself from saying anything else embarrassing.

John let out a laugh. "Sounds like fun." There were so many people, and they were all so _loud_. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to complain about it, however, as it did force John to lean closer in order to carry on their conversation. "So tell me more about these cases you solve. Do you ever have to go down to NSY to talk to the police or anything?"

"Sometimes. They used to not take me seriously when I went down there, but recently, they've been a bit better. Last week I even gave a DI my information so he could contact me again if he needs help." Sherlock couldn't help the pride in his voice.

"That's fantastic," John said, grinning over at him, apparently equally as proud. Sherlock forced back the rest of his drink to keep his mouth occupied. "Is that what you've been busy doing for the past two weeks?"

Sherlock ducked his head and fought back a blush. Ah, yes, the two weeks where he'd operated under false assumptions and had removed himself from John's presence. There was always something, it seemed, and this time, that 'something' had been a rather large thing to miss.

"I was worried you were avoiding me," John went on. "It was because of Sarah, wasn't it?"

Sherlock gave a shrug, not looking up at John. He went to take another sip from his drink but found that it was empty. He frowned down at the cup.

John laughed and reached up to place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You don't need to worry. I've only got eyes for one person right now."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that. Did John mean that _he_ was that one person? No, it couldn't be. Or, it could be, but he couldn't jump to that conclusion without proper evidence. God, it was getting difficult to think. His thoughts felt too fleeting.

"Here, I'll get you another one," John was saying, taking his empty cup. "Do you want another rum, or do you want to try something else?"

Sherlock wasn't even sure what else there was to try. "Surprise me," he ended up saying, because he trusted John's judgment far more than his own at that point.

"Can do. Stay here. I'll be right back."

And with that, John left him alone again. Sherlock didn't mind it so much. His mind was a little fuzzy now, and he had no problem occupying himself with analysing the sensation. He had only had one drink, and he was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to start feeling it this early on. A thought struck him. Ah, yes, he'd gone most of the day without eating, save for a few bites of a sandwich at lunch. He recalled that alcohol affected one's system differently in the absence of food. Well, this was a drastic oversight. He would be a mess by the time he finished his second drink. He didn't want to be a mess in front of John.

"Hey, gorgeous," someone said to his left.

Sherlock frowned over at the stranger. Male, approximately twenty-four, medium build. Thought _very_ highly of himself. Openly gay. Or possibly bisexual. It was difficult to tell in his current state. And there was something significant about the state of his watch, but Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on what it was.

"Not interested," he said, turning back so that he could look in the direction John had gone.

"Oh, come on, you don't even _know_ me. At least give me a chance?" He gave what he likely thought was a charming smile, inching closer to where Sherlock stood.

"I don't _want_ to know you," Sherlock said, pausing slightly before adding, "I've got someone else."

"Is that so?" The man clearly didn't believe him.

"Yes, that is so." John approached the pair of them. "Now, if you'll kindly leave him the fuck alone, we can get on with our evening."

The intruder looked like he was trying to size John up, but in his inebriated state, he merely managed to sway backward. He straightened himself up and turned back to Sherlock. "Come find me if you get bored of this one."

John stepped between Sherlock and the man. "'This one' will break your fucking arm if you don't leave him alone _right now_." John's voice had gone low and dangerous. Sherlock shivered. There was no doubt that John would follow through with his threat.

The man seemed to sense that. He raised his hands up in surrender before walking away.

John turned back around to face Sherlock, putting them _very_ close to one another. "Here's your drink," he said, offering Sherlock one of the cups he'd returned with.

As soon as Sherlock reached out to take it, John's newly free hand came up to rest on his hip. Sherlock nearly choked on the sip he'd taken, startled beyond belief at the contact. They were in public. John was touching him. _In public_. Sherlock thought back to Victor, to how different that had been. Granted, John's touch had never extended beyond being strictly platonic, but it was still thrilling to be touched so openly like this.

"What the hell is this?" Sherlock asked, frowning down at his drink. It proved to be a decent distraction from the minor crisis he was experiencing. The drink tasted like cinnamon and fire, and it burned when it went down.

"Fireball," John told him. "I got some for myself, too. I've never had it before, surprisingly enough."

Sherlock took another cautious sip. "It's not awful," he conceded at last, because that seemed to be the highest compliment he could give any type of alcohol other than wine. Wine was good, safe, not startling in the least. This stuff was quite the opposite. It was working, though; that was for sure. By the time he finished the drink, he could tell that he was drunk. Or, at least, he thought he was, based on what other people had described drunkenness to feel like. He wasn't out of control, and he could still keep himself from swaying too much just so long as he remained pressed against the wall, but the world would tilt slightly if he turned his head too quickly. He wished that there was some way to preserve this exact feeling for later study, and he did his best to commit it to memory.

"You look like you're concentrating far too hard for a party," John joked.

"I've never been drunk before," Sherlock explained. "I want to make sure I remember what it feels like."

John laughed, and Sherlock wanted to drown in the sound. His expression sobered just slightly. "Do you want to get out of here?" he asked. "My flat's not too far away. We could hang out there, if you want."

Sherlock did want that, very much so. Being alone with John would be far preferable to being surrounded by all these people with John. He nodded, the movement a little unsteady in his drunken state. "Yes, we can definitely do that."

He suddenly found that he was very close to John. Feeling bold, he glanced down at John's lips. So close. He could feel John's breath on his chin. He leaned down ever so slightly, bringing them even closer. His eyes were just starting to fall shut when John stepped away. Sherlock immediately felt cold air step into the space between them. He blinked, took a half step back. He didn't understand. It had felt like they were about to kiss. He had been so sure of it. Was this merely another situation where he misread John?

"Come on," John said, still smiling at him.

That was a good sign, at least. John clearly wasn't upset with him for his assumption. Still, as they walked out into the crisp evening air, Sherlock couldn't help but feel disappointed that he had misjudged the situation so badly. John ushered him into a cab, laughing about how "after two drinks you're already sloshed," and Sherlock was so delighted to hear John laugh that he allowed himself to be teased.

True to his word, John's flat was only a short drive away from the party, and before he could really even process where they were, Sherlock was being led upstairs into the empty flat. John's flatmate was clearly out for the night. They would be entirely alone. But, no, nothing would happen. He had tried to kiss John just moments before, and John had backed away rather than letting it happen.

"What are you making that face for?" John asked as he kicked off his shoes.

"I thought we were going to kiss earlier, but I was wrong," Sherlock said, and that was not what he had meant to say at all.

John didn't seem to mind, just favoured him with a soft smile. "I didn't want our first kiss to be in front of a crowd. I thought it might put you off."

Sherlock took an embarrassingly long moment to process John's words. "Our first kiss?" he repeated, a bit breathless.

"Yes, if you're still up for it."

Sherlock just stared at John, blinking, for thirty full seconds before he got himself together enough to nod.

John's smile turned almost predatory. "Good," he said, and then he was crossing the room, eliminating the space between them. One of John's hands came up to the back of his neck, drawing him down. For a few seconds, they just breathed one another in, mouths open, lips almost touching. Before Sherlock could even realise what was happening, there was no 'almost' about it anymore. They were kissing. Truly, properly kissing. It was a little awkward, as Sherlock's technique was sloppy from both inexperience and inebriation. He had thought that the kiss would remain closed-lipped for a bit, but apparently John had other ideas. A tongue was working its way into his mouth, and Sherlock didn't really know what to do other than part his lips even more. He tried to mimic John's movements, but without definitive feedback, he couldn't tell how he was doing. John's tongue was exploring his mouth, and every so often, Sherlock would flick his own tongue out to taste John's. It didn't taste like much, actually. It was warm and wet and…nothing. He had expected sparks, had expected John to taste incredible. In hindsight, he wasn't sure why he had expected that sort of thing at all. There was no reason for it to taste like anything, really, and so it tasted like nothing.

John pulled back, laughing. "Oh, my god, Sherlock, stop thinking and just relax."

Sherlock had his lips parted already the next time John kissed him, and he found that that was far more practical. Their tongues brushed together, and again, it didn't taste like much. How, then, could it have been so _addictive_? Kissing was exactly what it seemed to be on the surface. Tongues and lips and an exchange of minor fluids. It was so simple, so bland, and yet Sherlock could not get enough. He hummed into the kiss, pressing closer. John's hands were starting to stray, one still gripping the hair at the nape of his neck while the other inched lower and lower and lower, moving unbearably slowly. And then, _finally_ , John's hand gripped his arse. Sherlock gasped against John's lips, pressing back into that grip.

"You like that, do you?" John asked.

Sherlock merely hummed in response.

John's lips moved away from his own, across his jawline, onto his neck. At first, it was nothing but a bit of kissing, which, while nice, was nothing special. Just wet lips against his skin. And then, oh, John started to nip at his neck. He drew the skin between his teeth and sucked. Sherlock gasped again, hands grabbing at John's shoulders to keep himself steady. The sharp bite was painful in a delicious way. John would leave a mark if he kept that up. Now _that_ was an appealing idea. Walking around with John's mark still visible on his skin. A love-bite, far too high up to hide under the collar of his shirt. He wondered if John had planned that. Sherlock moaned at the thought. He would look _claimed_. Claimed by John Watson, no less. He rocked his hips forward on instinct, his moan growing louder as he felt John's arousal there.

John tore himself away from Sherlock's neck. " _Fuck_ ," he said, pressing back against Sherlock, grinding them together. Without separating them in the slightest, he used his grip on Sherlock's arse to pull them both toward the worn-down sofa. John laid down on it, pulling Sherlock on top of him. The position itself was surprising, as Sherlock had anticipated that John would put himself on top, but this way, John's hands were able to remain on his arse, so Sherlock figured that it wasn't so bad this way around.

"Yeah, that's good," John breathed, pulling Sherlock's hips down. When Sherlock got the hint and started moving against John on his own, John murmured, "Yeah, just like that. So good."

Sherlock found himself blushing ridiculously at the way John was talking. It wasn't even that obscene, but it seemed like an enactment of fantasies he hadn't even known he had. Another moan was startled out of him as he pressed down, getting the pressure just right.

"Yeah, that's it," John said. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how much you're enjoying this." Sherlock blushed more. "Come on, grind against me—yeah, like that."

Sherlock continued to move his hips, guided by John's hands on his arse. He picked up the pace, starting to get desperate. He whimpered. John squeezed his arse, and when John's mouth was back on his neck, Sherlock knew that he was done for. He could feel electricity flowing through his veins, sparking with pleasure.

"Oh, oh, oh," he gasped, eyes going wide as he realised that he was on the verge of coming.

"You're close, aren't you?" John asked him, as if Sherlock was in any state to respond. "Fuck, you're so hot. Go on, then. Let me see you. Let go for me."

Sherlock ground against John, that mouth back on his neck, biting and sucking and marking him. _Claiming_ him. It was that thought that finally caused the heat inside of him to explode, electric pleasure consuming him until his whole world was white-hot and incandescent.

Eventually, the haze of bliss faded slightly. He was distantly aware of the sound of a zipper being undone. He glanced over to see that John had shoved his trousers and pants down just enough to free his cock. Sherlock licked his lips, shifting so that he was pressed against the back of the sofa to provide John with more room. If he hadn't just spent himself, he would have certainly been aroused right then. Unsurprisingly, John's cock was just as perfect as the rest of him.

"Let me," Sherlock said, reaching out an unsteady hand.

John shook his head. "You just relax, gorgeous. Don't worry about me right now."

Sherlock should have pressed the issue, but relaxing sounded rather nice at the moment. The drinks he'd had left him drowsy, especially in the aftermath of his orgasm. He dropped his eyes down to where John was stroking himself. It only took another minute or two before John was coming, a bit of it hitting Sherlock in the chin. He sleepily scooped it up with a finger and brought it to his mouth to taste. He was too tired—and likely still too drunk—to properly process the taste, though, which was unfortunate.

"Fuck," John murmured above him. His breathing was beginning to slow down to normal again. "You tired?"

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, his head resting on John's chest. He shut his eyes. In the morning, his pants would be sticky and uncomfortable with dried ejaculate. In the morning, he would need to actually process what had just happened. In the morning, he wouldn't have the haze of alcohol guiding him through.

"Go to sleep," John said softly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

In the morning, yes. But not just yet.

* * *

 **Shoutout to MaxLovesYugiYami, winchesteritious, Asumy, and Tori-Bird627 for the comments! I really appreciate the support, and I love hearing feedback about the story, so thank you so much!**

 **There's only two more chapters left in this story, and I really hope you've all enjoyed it so far!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Kudos to MaxLovesYugiYami for correctly pinpointing all of Sherlock's fears about waking up the morning after.**

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Sherlock woke the next morning with an impending sense of dread. It seemed a fitting enough way to wake after getting drunk for the first time. He hoped for half a moment that perhaps his drunkenness might have wiped away the memory of the previous night, but he remembered it all. He wasn't sure whether or not to be pleased about that. A blackout episode might have offered him some sort of escape from the consequences that undoubtedly awaited him. But, no, he remembered everything: getting drunk, kissing John, doing…other things with John as well. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as if he could force himself back into unconsciousness.

Hesitantly, Sherlock cracked an eye open, confirming what he had already suspected. He was still on the sofa, as he had been the night before, but John was nowhere to be found. His chest felt painfully tight. Ah, he thought, so that was how this was going to be. Sherlock hadn't imagined that John would be the type to flee the morning after, but he couldn't say he blamed the man. For John, it had likely been nothing more than a drunken mistake. Sherlock merely hoped that he hadn't ruined everything between them.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and took a moment to simply rub at his temples, hoping to rid himself of the headache he could feel lurking there. When he looked around the room—fully determined to commit it to memory in case he was never invited back—he discovered a folded piece of paper perched on the coffee table.

 _Sherlock_ , it said on the front. He hesitated, not sure if he really wanted to read what the note said, but he eventually forced himself to pick it up. If John was going to tell him that it had all been a mistake, Sherlock would rather get that over with while they weren't in the same room.

 _I know it's poor form to dash off like this, but I'm running a bit late for work, and you're sleeping so soundly I'm not sure I could wake you if I tried. Text me when you're awake._

 _P.S. I left a glass of water out for you. It'll help with the dehydration._

 _John_

That was it. That was _it_? There was no mention of what had happened the previous night. Surely the incident warranted _some_ attention, didn't it? Perhaps John was merely waiting to have that particular conversation in person. Before he could overthink things (more than he already had), he pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text off to John. His stomach was in knots as he waited for the reply, though he wasn't sure if that was caused by his anxiety or by the leftover alcohol in his system. Sherlock reminded himself that John was at work and was likely having difficulty finding time to write a response, but he was still growing jumpier with every minute that passed.

It took six whole minutes for John to text back, in which time he had finished off the glass of water and had even gone so far as to put the used glass back in the kitchen. He had actually considered washing it himself when his phone chimed. He let out a relieved sigh and walked back into the sitting room to see what John had said.

 _This is a little last minute, but I get a break in about half an hour. Want to come down to the bakery for a bit? I can get you a free cup of coffee or a scone or something. JW_

Sherlock, again, was baffled by the words before him. Was John really content not to talk about what had happened?

 _I'll try to make it there in half an hour. SH_

This time, the reply was instant.

 _Sounds good :) I work at Speedy's café and bakery, by the way, but you probably already knew that. JW_

Sherlock didn't bother trying to think of a response to that. He didn't have much time if he hoped to stop by campus quickly to change. His trousers and pants were just as sticky and uncomfortable as he'd imagined they'd be, and he had no interest in going to meet John while he still had ejaculate coating the inside of his clothes. He glanced down at himself. Lovely. It was on the outside of his clothes as well. He really needed to change.

It took thirteen minutes to get back to his own room (would have taken eleven, but the cab driver had been unbearably slow), leaving Sherlock seven minutes to change before he needed to head out to meet John at Speedy's. Sherlock rubbed himself down with a wet flannel, put on deodorant, brushed his teeth, changed, and brushed his teeth again in six minutes flat. There was nothing he could do about the marks on his neck, dark purple and livid against this pale skin. He would have to look into asking Molly for some of her concealer at a later point, but there was no time currently. He wasn't anywhere near as presentable as he'd have liked to be as he walked out of his flat, but it would have to do.

He hesitated for only a moment before catching another cab, this one taking him to the café and bakery. It would be better, he told himself, to simply get this all over with. Besides, John hadn't seemed overly angry in his text. The use of emoticon certainly indicated that he was in a good mood. It was possible, then, that this wouldn't be overly painful. Perhaps John would even agree to let them stay friends. That would be far more than Sherlock thought he deserved after forcing himself on John, at any rate. _Last night was a mistake, and I don't think it should be repeated_ , John would say, and Sherlock would respond with a nod and a blank expression, and all would be well.

Even still, he couldn't stop fidgeting, not even when he entered Speedy's. He shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping to prevent them from giving away his anxiety.

He looked around, trying to locate John in the relative bustle of the café. Sherlock finally caught sight of John coming out of the back, where he had clearly been baking judging by the flour that covered his apron.

John smiled at Sherlock when their eyes met. "Perfect timing," he said, shucking his apron and walking over to a corner table. "Care to sit? I've got that free coffee I promised coming up." He gestured over to one of his coworkers, clearly indicating that the coffee be brought to their table when it was prepared.

Sherlock wasn't sure what else to do but sit as John had requested. "Thank you," he said softly as a mug of steaming coffee was brought out for him. He fiddled with a sugar packet to give his hands something to do.

"You okay?" John asked, head cocked to the side. "You seem a little off." His expression changed to something sympathetic. "You must be pretty hung-over, huh?"

Sherlock nodded, though it wasn't true. His head was aching a bit, but it was only minor, and he didn't feel the urge to vomit at all. He had only had two drinks, after all. It was embarrassing that he had even gotten drunk that quickly in the first place.

John let out a little laugh. "Yeah, you were pretty gone last night." Concern flashed over his features. "You still remember what happened, don't you?"

 _This is it,_ Sherlock thought. This was how John would bring up what a mistake it had been. He took a moment to steady himself. "Yes, I remember what happened," he said, and because he didn't want John to be too angry with him, he added, "I apologise for…pressuring you."

John furrowed his brow and smiled a confused little smile. He reached out and covered Sherlock's hand with his own, almost unthinkingly. "You didn't pressure me," John told him earnestly. "Don't ever think that, okay?"

Sherlock couldn't think of anything to say in response. John was still holding his hand. In public. Where anyone could see. It was still possible that John perceived their activities the previous night as being a mistake, though his deflection of blame off of Sherlock indicated that he thought they had both been at fault. _Or maybe_ , a small part of him argued, _maybe John wanted it to happen._ It was foolish to indulge in unlikely possibilities, though, when there was nothing to support them. Then again, John _was_ holding his hand. In public, no less. The night before, Sherlock had been thrilled that John had touched his hip when they were out in the open, but this—this was so much better. This blurred the boundaries between strictly platonic and something more, and Sherlock knew that it was dangerous to allow it to continue.

"Sherlock," John said, a bit forcefully. He squeezed Sherlock's hand. His expression relaxed into something soft when Sherlock finally glanced up away from their joined hands. "There you are. You were starting to freak me out a bit." He chuckled. "You've just been blinking like that for two whole minutes now."

Sherlock blushed and looked away. He took a sip of coffee, comforting himself with the knowledge that he at least wouldn't embarrass himself doing that.

"You didn't try covering up your love-bites," John noted, gesturing with his free hand over to Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock nearly choked on his coffee. "I would have tried," he assured John. "I just didn't have time if I wanted to meet you for your break. I can cover them with my hand, if you want." He moved to take his hand out from under John's to do just that, but the man merely pressed down to prevent him from retracting the contact.

"I happen to like your hand where it is," John said with a coy smile. "Besides, I like seeing you all marked up like this. It's a _very_ good look on you."

Sherlock was confused beyond belief, but he didn't want to say anything to draw attention to the fact that John was reacting strangely. He was inherently selfish, and he wanted to keep this for as long as possible. "Oh," was all he seemed able to say. Luckily, John seemed to find that charming, as he kept smiling over at Sherlock.

"Oi, Watson, wrap it up," one of John's coworkers called to him. "Break's almost over."

John looked like he was fighting a grimace. "I guess I'd better get back to it." He gestured with his free hand to the counter.

Sherlock was surprisingly disappointed. He had been anxious for almost their entire interaction thus far, but at least John was smiling at him, touching him. Touching him _in public_ , in ways that were not wholly platonic, and he was still so in awe of it that he couldn't allow himself to think about it for too long, lest he risk his mental capabilities for the next several minutes.

"All right," he said at last.

John seemed pleased by his reaction, so that was something. "I mean, I don't know if you've got other plans for tonight, but we could meet up once my shift's over for dinner, if you want." He shrugged in attempted nonchalance, but Sherlock thought he could detect a hint of nervousness. Why would John be nervous? That was clearly Sherlock's job.

"I don't have any other plans for tonight," Sherlock said quickly. It wasn't exactly a lie. He had anticipated having free time in which to work on an experiment, but he was hardly going to turn John away if he was requesting that they spend more time together. That was the exact opposite of what he wanted to do.

John beamed at him. "Fantastic! I can pick you up at six?"

Sherlock nodded and offered a shy smile. John's expression brightened even more, if that were possible.

"I'll see you at six, Sherlock Holmes."

John's fingers slid over the back of his hand as he got up. Sherlock shivered.

* * *

 **This is the second-to-last chapter of this fic. The last chapter will be posted on Friday. After that I'll probably start working on the other fic I'd written but never finished (called Once Upon a Dream on here).**

 **Anyway, keep an eye out for the last chapter, and please leave a review if you've got any feedback about this one/the story so far! Thank you to Tori-Bird627 and MaxLovesYugiYami for the reviews on the previous chapter!**


	10. Chapter 10

**This is it, guys** — **the last chapter. Thank you all so much for reading this, and a special thank you to all those who commented and favorited and followed and all that! I hope you enjoy!**

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Sherlock called Molly—rather than sending a text as he usually would have done—the second he arrived back at his room. He would have done it as soon as he left Speedy's, but he had a (slightly irrational, yes) fear that John would somehow hear him if he was even on the same street as the café still. He paced restlessly, hands tangling in his hair as he waited for Molly to pick up. It was still greasy and unkempt from the night before. He desperately needed a shower, but he supposed there was still time for that. Was there really six hours until dinner? Six hours simultaneously felt like an age and not nearly long enough.

He was spared from actually tearing his hair out in anxiety when Molly answered his call.

"Are you all right?" Molly asked, concerned. "You're not dying or anything, are you? Because I've told you before that, yes, while I am studying medicine, that doesn't mean that I'm an actual medical professional yet."

"I'm not dying," Sherlock quickly assured her, though his tone of voice likely sounded wrecked enough to raise doubt. "Something… _happened_ last night."

Molly paused for a moment. "Is this 'something' good or bad?" she asked eventually.

"Good," Sherlock said at first, but he reconsidered. "Well, it was good at the time, but now I fear there may be consequences."

Molly let out a slightly frustrated sigh. "Sherlock, just spit it out. What happened?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but the words wouldn't come. As he tried to formulate an accurate response, he found that what had happened the night before seemed too far-fetched to be real.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock finally jolted himself back into action. "I went home with John last night."

Molly gasped. "You did?" There was a pause, and then, "Did you two have sex?"

Sherlock found himself blushing at that, grateful that Molly couldn't see. "No," he said, and then, "Well, maybe. It depends on what you qualify as…'sex.'"

"Were there mutual orgasms involved?"

God, somehow talking about this with Molly was about as embarrassing as it would have been to bring it up with his mother. "Yes," he muttered at last, because while Sherlock had remained fully clothed the whole time, and while John had been the one to bring himself off, it was indeed true that both of them had reached orgasm. "We kissed, too." It felt important to add that. "It wasn't just…you know, the carnal stuff. We kissed."

Molly let out something akin to a squeal.

"What the hell was that?"

"I'm just so proud of you," she said, sounding thrilled. "I never thought I would see the day, and yet, here we are."

"Yes, well, don't be too proud. He wasn't even there when I woke up this morning."

There was a slight pause. When Molly spoke again, her tone had changed drastically. "He actually ditched you the morning after? That bastard."

Sherlock felt the urge to defend John. "He left a note for me. He said he was running late for work and that he didn't want to wake me."

"And do you believe that?"

"Of course. He asked me to meet him during one of his breaks, and I did, so I know he was definitely working when I woke up this morning."

Sherlock could practically hear Molly frowning. "I don't understand," she admitted. "What's the problem, then? Did he say something to you when you met up?"

"No," Sherlock said, resisting the urge to fidget. "But that doesn't mean that he won't say something later. He wanted to go to dinner with me tonight, so he might bring it up then." He bit his lip. "What if John says that it was just a mistake?"

Molly laughed. He was in the middle of a crisis, the likes of which he had never dealt with before (Victor didn't count, as Sherlock had never had to react to the break-up with him), and Molly was _laughing_ at him.

"Stop that. You're supposed to be helping me, not making fun of me."

Molly's chuckles died off. "Sorry, sorry. It's just—Sherlock, you clearly have nothing to worry about. John's not going to say it was a mistake, I can guarantee that."

Sherlock frowned. "How can you guarantee that?"

Molly sighed, though there was still an edge of mirth in her voice when she spoke. "Because he's obviously still interested in you. If he thought it was just a drunken mistake, would he have left that note out for you this morning? Would he have asked you to come meet him when you woke up?"

"Well, I originally thought that he intended to explain it all to me in person when I went down there. He hardly seems the type to do it over text." How was it that Molly seemed to be the observant one here? Sherlock was supposed to pick up on subtle clues, and yet, when it came to John, it seemed that he was utterly useless, sentiment clouding his observations.

"Did he break it off with you when you met up with him?" Molly pressed.

"No," Sherlock murmured slowly.

"And he asked you to dinner, didn't he? Did he say he would pick you up?"

How had Molly known that? "Yes, he did."

Molly gave another short laugh. "Sherlock, you have a date tonight."

God, now he was blushing again. His heart was hammering in his chest, that fluttery feeling branching out from his stomach and into the rest of his body. "That's impossible," he heard himself say, but his voice sounded odd. He sat down on the edge of his bed. A date? With John Watson? Definitely impossible. There was no reason for John to want that when he could have anybody.

"Not impossible," Molly countered. "Trust me, this is definitely a date. Did he flirt with you at all when you saw him?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow and thought back to their encounter. In anyone else, he might have considered that flirting, but it had been directed at _him_ by _John Watson_ , so he wasn't sure if the same rules still applied. "I mean, he did hold my hand, and when I tried to move it to cover up the marks on my neck, he told me he liked my hand where it was and that being marked up was a good look on me." Sherlock felt a bit lost as he recreated that scene. Had that actually happened? Of course it had; he had been present for it, and he remembered it perfectly. Still, it felt surreal to be saying it aloud.

"Wow," Molly said after a short pause. "Wow, he is _so_ into you. Yeah, it's definitely a date tonight."

Sherlock was having heart palpitations again, he was sure. "What am I supposed to do, then?" he asked. "I'm nowhere near prepared for a date, if that even is what this is."

"What time is he picking you up?"

"Around six."

"Sherlock, you've got _hours_." Molly muttered something under her breath that sounded like _useless men_. "Look, why don't you get yourself cleaned up, and I'll head over there in a bit to help you decide what to wear."

Sherlock let out a relieved sigh. "I'd appreciate that. I'll see you a little later, then."

§

Molly, it turned out, had been incredibly helpful, if only because she had no qualms about forcing Sherlock to calm down when he started to get anxious. She had walked him through picking out what to wear (grey trousers and a deep blue dress shirt), and she had helped style his hair (which took nearly an hour in and of itself), and she had generally kept him from driving himself mad. She had even offered use of her concealer to cover up the marks on his neck, but Sherlock, cheeks pink, had refused.

Shortly before John was set to arrive, Molly dashed off, promising that she would be awake when he got back from the date if he wanted to talk about it. That left Sherlock alone with his thoughts, which was a very dangerous place to be when he was as anxious as he currently was. Simultaneously thrilled and terrified, he considered faking illness at least three times before there was finally a knock at the door of his room.

John was on the other side of the door, he knew. How John had even known which building he was in or which room was his, Sherlock didn't know, but somehow, John was standing out in the hall. John, who was going to take him out on a (suspected but not confirmed) date. John, who was (apparently, possibly) still attracted to him even after the night they'd shared. Or perhaps because of it. It was difficult to say. Sherlock found that John was not an easy man to read, especially when it came to sentimental matters like this one.

He gathered his coat and wallet before moving to answer the door, his hand hesitating for only a moment before pulling it open.

"Hi," John said by way of greeting, his eyes scanning Sherlock's form. "Wow, you look great. Really, just—wow."

Sherlock ducked his head to hide his smile, peeking up a bit as he responded. "You look rather good yourself." That was certainly an understatement. John looked perfect, as always. He was dressed in dark jeans and a pale blue jumper that brought out his eyes. Sherlock wondered if the jumper was as soft as it looked. He shook that thought away.

John smiled at him. "Ready to go? I've got reservations for us at that Italian place down the street." His brow furrowed. "Or do you not like Italian? Shit, I probably should have asked you, right? We can go somewhere else if you want. Indian, maybe? Thai?"

Sherlock was oddly endeared by John's fumbling right then. It was refreshing to not be the one blundering through a sentence for once. "Italian is fine. I like Italian."

John let out a relieved sigh. "Great," he said. "That's really great. Come on, then."

John led him outside with a hand on the small of his back, just as he had done the night before on the way to the party. The restaurant was only a few blocks away, so they chose to walk. They remained silent for most of the way, though the quiet wasn't as awkward as it could have been.

When the reached the restaurant, they were seated almost instantly, owing to the fact that John had made them a reservation. Sherlock busied himself with the menu, trying to keep himself occupied so he wouldn't say anything too embarrassing. As his eyes scanned the pastas, though, a thought occurred to him, and he dropped the menu back onto the table. John glanced over at him, concern in his features.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, thinking back to the day John had invited him to the party. The day that John wasn't supposed to be at the library but had shown up anyway. "Why were you in the library on Thursday? You were in the middle of a lecture, and then you left to come to the library? That doesn't make any sense." Sherlock was embarrassed that it had taken him this long to question John about that, but truthfully, he had been far too preoccupied with the fact that John had asked to spend time with him outside of the library that he hadn't even bothered to think twice about it all.

John gave a shy smile and ducked his head. "Well, you see, Sarah also goes to the library pretty often, and since you were never there when I was, I had her promise to text me if she ever caught sight of you in there. When she saw you on Thursday, she told me, and then I came running from class to find you before you left." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Pretty lame, I guess, but there you have it."

Sherlock was suddenly struck with the fact that John _fancied_ him. It had been obvious that John was attracted to him, at least physically, from their activities the night before, but John seemed to crave his company, at least enough to cause him to enlist the help of his friends like he had done. This was _definitely_ a date, he realised. "Oh," was all he felt capable of saying.

John smiled softly at him. "You're doing that blinking thing again," he told Sherlock. "It's adorable." He reached out to take Sherlock's hand in his own.

A waiter came over to take their orders, but Sherlock was far too distracted to even pay attention to what he ordered. As soon as the waiter stepped away from their table, Sherlock looked back at John.

"You really like me?" he asked, a tad breathless. Startling as it was, Sherlock had meant for it to sound more like a statement than a question. He was still having a difficult time believing it.

John frowned. "Er, yes." He sounded confused. "I thought that was obvious, especially for someone as observant as you are. It should have definitely been obvious last night."

Sherlock ducked his head. "I wasn't sure if you considered last night to be a mistake."

Struggling with obvious disbelief, John was apparently rendered incapable of speaking for a few moments, simply staring at Sherlock, perplexed. "How is it that you can tell me that I'm studying medicine, that I have a sibling I don't get on with, and that I work at a bakery, but you can't tell that I've been flirting with you for ages?" He let out a startled laugh. "You're rubbish when it comes to this sort of thing, aren't you?"

Sherlock frowned. "You're ruining the moment, John," he muttered petulantly, not enjoying that John had located one of his major faults.

John laughed again, squeezing his hand. "Sorry. You're really brilliant at everything else. Better?"

Sherlock's sulk dissolved into a hesitant smile. "Better."

John smirked. "You were _especially_ brilliant at what we did last night."

Sherlock flushed bright red. "I didn't even do anything for you last night. You…took care of yourself." He kept his voice down as the waiter approached them with their meals.

Even as the waiter placed their food in front of them, John continued to smirk, seeming unashamed of their conversation. "Just hearing the noises you made was more than enough for me," he said, not modulating his volume at all.

The waiter made a choking sound as he sped away from the table.

John didn't appear to care that he had been overheard. "God, and the way you looked—damn. You're amazing."

Sherlock picked up his fork and twirled it around amidst the pasta he'd apparently ordered. "Thank you," he murmured, smiling faintly, cheeks still pink due to the topic at hand.

"No need to thank me, love."

Sherlock stared blankly at John. _Love_. His heart was trying to work its way up his throat.

John's expression contorted in sympathy. He rubbed his thumb along the back of Sherlock's hand, clearly attempting to soothe him. "Too soon for endearments? Sorry. It just sort of slipped out."

Sherlock shook his head vigorously. " _No_ ," he said, perhaps a bit too suddenly. He cleared his throat. "I mean, no. Not too soon."

John smiled. "Good."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Sherlock found it difficult to eat with his stomach in knots, but he made an attempt all the same. He actually managed to work through about half of his pasta, which was far more than he had expected to eat. The entire time, John's hand remained on his, and Sherlock tried to pretend that his palms were sweaty for an entirely different reason. John only removed his hand when the bill arrived. He insisted on paying for Sherlock's portion as well ("It wouldn't be a proper date if I made you pay"), and Sherlock was so thrilled at the gesture that he didn't bother to argue.

"I can pay next time," he offered, subtly testing to see whether or not John would want another date.

John beamed at him. "Next time," he said, and it sounded like a promise.

As they left the restaurant, Sherlock, feeling bold, reached out and twined their fingers together. Past experience indicated that John was comfortable with minimal public displays of affection, so he figured that the gesture wouldn't be refused. He was right. John squeezed his hand and smiled in his direction, making no move to pull away.

It was far too soon when they arrived back at Sherlock's room. He turned around, back to the door, and made no move to go inside, reluctant as he was for the night to end.

"Here we are," he said, suddenly alight with nerves again.

John squeezed his hand once more before releasing it. "Here we are," he agreed. "Thank you, Sherlock, for coming out with me tonight."

It was ridiculous that John would thank him for such a thing. "Thank _you_ for asking me to come to dinner with you." He started to turn toward the door, but a hand on his hip stopped him in his tracks. "John?" he asked softly, suddenly finding that John was much closer than he had been.

"I just want to…" John never finished the thought. Instead, he leaned up, moving slowly enough that Sherlock could back away if he wanted to. He didn't want to. Sherlock allowed his eyes to fall shut, and he ducked his head down until their lips were pressed together. It was just as addictive as it had been the night before. In theory, it was no more interesting than any other kiss he had ever experienced, but the fact that it was _John_ kissing him made the whole experience subtly electric. He didn't even realise he was craving it until John pulled away, and he found himself leaning in for more. The kiss turned a bit heated, John's tongue pushing into his mouth more aggressively. Sherlock struggled to keep up and found that he enjoyed being overwhelmed by John. After perhaps a full minute (far too short, as far as Sherlock was concerned), John pulled away, a soft smile on his lips. "Goodnight, Sherlock," he said, voice gruff.

Before John could even take a step back, Sherlock reached out and pulled him close. "You could come in," he suggested, not caring that he sounded frayed and desperate.

John's smile widened. "Yeah, all right. I'll come in."

Sherlock smiled back, and for the first time since this had all started, he allowed himself to accept it as reality rather than an unlikely possibility.

§

From that point on, Sherlock and John would enter the library together every weekday at two o'clock, hand in hand. The first time they had done that, Seb Wilkes had almost commented. He'd gotten as far as opening his mouth and taking a breath before John was glaring at him. "Talk to Sherlock again, and I'll break your fucking nose," he had said, voice deathly low. Wilkes had seemed offended at the threat, but he apparently believed it, as he hadn't tried speaking to Sherlock since. Sherlock hadn't realised how much he had dreaded interacting with Seb until it had all stopped.

A month into their relationship found Sherlock and John in the library, as per usual. John was studying for some practical exam he had coming up, and Sherlock had a case file spread out before him.

("The DI called _me_ , John, requesting _my_ help on an actual _case_."

"I know, love. I was there with you when it happened."

"I'm a certified consultant, John."

"I don't know if I'd say 'certified,' but it certainly is an incredible opportunity." There had been a fond smile there. "I know people are dead, but you look gorgeous when you're excited about a case."

And Sherlock had blushed as he had in the beginning, his reaction to John's compliments never quite diminishing.)

John had tried holding his hand across the table at first, but Sherlock had needed to shuffle the file around before him, so John eventually let him have both of his hands free. Instead, John's legs were pressed up against his own under the table, a subtle, reassuring point of contact.

Sherlock had been pouring over the evidence for close to an hour before it hit him. He gasped as the pieces fell together. Obvious, really, it was so obvious. Even still, he knew that the police couldn't have made that connection.

"Solved it?" John asked, looking up from his book. He looked proud.

Sherlock nodded, grinning slightly manically. "I've got to get down to Scotland Yard. Those idiots will never be able to put it all together unless I'm explaining it to them in person."

John chuckled. "Maybe tone down the insults when you're actually talking to them. I know you're cleverer than all of them combined, but they might not be so keen on working with you if you keep pointing that out."

Sherlock made a face at the suggestion of playing nice, and John laughed, packing up his things. Sherlock stared at him. "What are you doing?"

"I'm coming with you."

Sherlock frowned. "You've got an exam to study for. You've been moaning about it for weeks. You need to study."

John merely smiled at him and walked around the table so that they were toe-to-toe. "Well, lucky for me, my boyfriend is a genius, and he can help me catch up on my studying later." John was so close to him, their lips practically touching, despite the fact that the library was relatively crowded right then. (It still surprised him every time John was openly affectionate with him in public like this, where anyone could see.)

"Is that so?" Sherlock murmured, his words ghosting across John's lips.

"That is so."

The kiss was nothing more than a brief peck, really, but it still sent a thrill through him.

"Come on, then," John said when he pulled back. "Let's get you down to Scotland Yard so you can show off your brilliance." He was smiling, soft and genuine and affectionate.

Sherlock smiled back, no longer as hesitant as he had once been.

§

The library, it turned out, housed many treasures, but none quite so great as John Watson.

* * *

"My library is an archive of longings."  
Susan Sontag

 **Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought of this final chapter!**


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